


Once More Unto the Breach

by LadyKarai



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Battle of Agincourt, M/M, Old Fic/Still Good, Shakespearean Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKarai/pseuds/LadyKarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from Shakespeare's Henry V, following the actions of one French herald as he deals with the noble King of England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More Unto the Breach

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on FanFiction in 2010, was removed due to their tendency to overreact to stories with sexual situations, and will now live in this lovely place. Every word of dialogue, other than Cloud's and Leon's names, is Shakespeare's. The inspiration for the settings is from the 1989 film.

Act I, Scene II

He stood in the silent hall, waiting patiently for the summons that would place him within the king’s presence. Beside him, the boy who had been charged with transporting his Prince’s gift fidgeted upon his feet, but he showed no such weakness. Even though his message was surely to be received poorly, he felt no anxiety, no hesitation. The Prince had fully explained the character of this young king, newly ascended to the throne, and he had no doubt that his country would emerge the victor in any conflict that should arise due to his visit.

At length, the great doors to the throne room swung open, and an attendant stepped forward with a single word:

“Enter.”

His cape swished about him as he turned, and the sharp clacks of his boots upon stone rang out as he passed quickly through the doors which were shut behind him. The boy trotted along beside him, carrying the small but elegantly detailed box in his arms. Together, they advanced to within a dozen paces of the throne and then stopped. In deference to the lords who now surrounded him, he removed his feathered hat and gave the assemblage a polite bow.

It was quite an impressive group of men who sat in two rows on either side of him, their eyes locked firmly upon him and his unsmiling face. The king’s court was famed even within his own country for its brave and noble warriors, its wise and steady advisors. His eyes, however, were only for the young man who sat upon the legendary throne of England, a young man who lounged comfortably within his seat, one elbow resting upon an arm of the chair, his head propped in the raised hand. It was for this man that he had brought his message. It was to this man he was to announce his Prince’s scorn.

Cold gray eyes slid to meet his own, and the monarch’s free hand rose to wave away the two men in religious robes who were whispering words into his ear. They stepped back in obedience, allowing the king to fix his gaze fully upon the messenger who stood within his throne room.

Calmly, in a voice soft but firm, he spoke, “Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure of our fair cousin Dauphin.”

Unimpressed, the messenger related in high tones, “Your highness, lately sending into France, did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right of your great predecessor, King Vinzer the Third. In answer of which claim, the prince my master says that you savour too much of your youth.” The cold eyes narrowed slightly, but the king gave no other reaction to this reminder of his past. Continuing, the messenger indicated the boy beside him with a tip of his head and stated, “He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit, this tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this, desires you let the dukedoms that you claim hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.”

A quiet exchange occurred between the king and one of his lords, and the boy was ordered with a motion to bring his burden closer. As nervous as the child clearly was, he had been trained well and stood beside the golden-haired lord with barely a visible tremble.

“What treasure, cousin?” the king asked, his dead eyes not straying from the face of the messenger who stared back with barely-concealed defiance.

The addressed lord lifted a gloved hand and opened the box to reveal a pyramid of small white globes. He removed one to show the others in attendance. His handsome face, scarred by a great wound that covered nearly all of one cheek and extended over his brow, scowled in displeasure. “Tennis-balls, my liege,” he answered.

A ripple of irritated movement passed through the assemblage, but they recovered their decorum quickly. As for the messenger, he could barely contain his self-satisfied smirk. This was indeed a foul insult for his Prince to deliver, but the man before him deserved every hidden barb. This man had spent his youth running from the responsibilities of the crown, persistently denying his birthright and embracing the life of the common soldier. Upon the death of his father, some had speculated that he would refuse the throne, and his own king had considered an invasion while the country was in turmoil. To the surprise of the entire world, young Prince Squall had not only taken the crown but had changed his name to King Leon so as to symbolize how his heart had changed. The nobles in France, however, did not believe that the child had matured and neither did he.

The king’s eyes had never once strayed from his own, and now he lifted his head from his hand to speak. “We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us,” he said smoothly, his voice sounding almost like the purr of some cat. “His present and your pains we thank you for.” A small smile graced those thin lips, but the messenger realized with growing surprise that there was something predatory within it, something strong and unyielding. “When we have march'd our rackets to these balls,” the king continued, “we will, in France, by God's grace, play a set shall strike his father's crown into the hazard. And we understand him well, how he comes o'er us with our wilder days, not measuring what use we made of them.”

The monarch suddenly rose to his feet, and two rows of shocked men rose likewise as their king slowly advanced upon the Frenchman who stood rooted to the throne room floor. “But tell the Dauphin,” he purred, “I will keep my state, be like a king and show my sail of greatness when I do rouse me in my throne of France. And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his hath turn'd his balls to gun-stones, and his soul shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance that shall fly with them.”

Those gray eyes were bearing down on him, close enough now that he could see that they were not cold with death but with a fire unlike any he had seen before. Between those eyes rested a heretofore unnoticed scar, a mark that aged the young face considerably and gave him a fierceness that was only heightened by the man’s unmistakable presence and power.

The purr that had covered him before was now a growl, the meek cat transformed in an instant into a wild and dangerous lion. “For many a thousand widows shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands, mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down, and some are yet ungotten and unborn that shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.” The king’s face was now a hair’s breadth from his own, and he stared, dumbfounded, into those turbulent gray eyes. For several heartbeats, no man moved; the man of England and the man of France merely gazed upon one another, one confident, the other awed. When the silence was finally broken, it was once again by that seductive, feline rumble. “So get you hence in peace, and tell the Dauphin his jest will savour but of shallow wit, when thousands weep more than did laugh at it.”

The spell woven between the two men broke as the king turned his head and addressed a minor lord farther down the row. “Convey them with safe conduct.” Those eyes returned to him, but only for a second. “Fare you well.” The man turned, the dismissal evident.

Swallowing to regain his composure, the messenger turned as well and quickly exited the hall with the empty-handed boy on his heels. As the heavy doors shut behind him again with finality, he paused in his walk for a moment to consider. The person in whose presence he had just been was no child as the Prince had claimed. He was most definitely a man, a _king_ , and a great one to be certain. Those gray eyes had promised a bloody future to any who dared defy him.

The messenger slowly replaced his hat upon his blond locks and lifted his blue eyes to gaze steadily ahead of him. Without a doubt, a great storm was soon to descend upon fair France, the same wild and tumultuous storm that had already washed over him and gripped without mercy his own shaken heart.

 

Act III, Scene VI

The skies hung heavy with the threat of rain as he urged his horse to gallop ever faster. The poor beast was already moving at top speed, but the weight of his mission, looming as heavily in his mind as those dark clouds above him, spurred him into ever greater urgency. Truth be told, he did not fully understand the emotions that gripped him as he rode. The message itself was one of prideful formality, undoubtedly to be scorned and returned in kind. The man for whom the message was meant, however, was not a man whom the Frenchman could easily forget.

That man had rallied his army and had invaded his home country. That army had taken Harfleur and was now on the march north. The lords at Rouen were determined to halt the English advance; nay, they were determined to crush the army into dust as revenge for prior insults that they had endured. Yet, even though he was a child of France, as loyal to her soil as to his own mother’s bosom, he could not help the excitement that trembled through him at the thought of seeing those powerful gray eyes once more.

His mount crested a hill, and suddenly, the army of the English lay before him, half-hidden by the bare branches of the surrounding woods. Pausing for a moment to collect himself, he inhaled several steadying breaths, then nudged his horse into a more respectable trot. He lifted the banner he held higher into the air, allowing the flag to unfurl fully and flutter in the wind created by their passage, and with head held high, he rode directly to the head of the army, fully expecting its leader to be there.

He found the king on foot, staring with an unreadable expression up at a newly-hung corpse. The sight confused him, but he kept going forward, driven by his master’s order and the need to obey. Several of the surrounding lords watched his approach, but the king himself did not regard him until he had come to a stop barely a yard away from the swinging feet of the dead man. Only then did the gray eyes, rimmed ever so slightly with red, move to acknowledge him, and a tip of the noble head granted him permission to speak.

The messenger took a breath and lifted his chin, feigning the superiority that he no longer felt around this man. “Thus says my king: Say thou to Leon of England: Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep. Tell him we could have rebuked him at Harfleur. Now we speak, and our voice is imperial. England shall repent his folly. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom which must proportion the losses we have borne, which in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. To this add defiance, and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced.” For this last, he raised his voice so that the assembled soldiers could hear him clearly. “So far my king and master,” he finished in more normal tones, “so much my office.”

For a moment, the king simply looked at him, and he could easily see the tiredness in the other man’s eyes. The long siege, the harsh winter, the long march, all had taken their toll on the men from England, even their brave and powerful king.

“What is thy name?”

The voice was so soft, the tone so casual, that he almost missed it. Recovering himself, he replied, “Cloud.”

Leon inclined his head in the smallest of nods, and something resembling a smile flickered across his face.  “Thou dost thy office fairly,” he said, and the praise unexpectedly sent a thrill up the messenger’s spine. “Turn thee back,” the monarch continued, “and tell thy king I do not seek him now but could be willing to march on to Calais without impeachment. Go therefore, tell thy master here I am.” He lifted his arms and spread them to his sides, exposing his broad chest and the proud heart that beat within. “My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, my army but a weak and sickly guard, yet …” The arms lowered, and those eyes that had been so tired mere moments before ignited with fire once more. A new determination seemed to flare within the man before him, and Cloud suddenly found himself inexplicably holding his breath. “God before, tell him we _will_ come on, though France himself and such another neighbour stand in our way.”

The momentary burst of power faded, and fatigue returned once again to the scarred face of the English monarch. Yet the French messenger knew within his heart that the tiredness of the other man was not a weakness. This man with the gray eyes and the soft voice had a fierce spirit and an unwavering courage that compelled all those around him to loyalty and reverence. He could feel the pull of it upon his own soul.

“So Cloud,” the king said, and his lips turned up slightly at the blond man’s name, “fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle, as we are, nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it. So tell your master.”

The flag that he held tipped down slightly, a terrible abuse of his office, but a gesture that, he felt, this brave man deserved. “I shall deliver so,” he stated. Then, after a pause, he added, honestly and heartfelt, “Thanks to your highness.”

Something new flickered in the depths of those eyes that held his own. For a moment, the monarch seemed to regard him not as a messenger from his enemy but as a man in his own right. A sudden heat spread through the Frenchman’s body as their connection lingered, and the pace of his heart quickened within his tightening chest. Yet as powerful and unexpected as the moment was, it ended in the span of mere heartbeats. Remembering his audience and his duties, Leon turned away in dismissal, and, upon receiving his release, Cloud guided his horse around and, without looking back, galloped away.

 

Act III, Scene VII

In truth, he should not have been present within the tent of the highest lords on the eve before their battle with England. Sephiroth, Lord High Constable of France, however, had taken a liking to him in recent months, and so he had been invited to sit with men far above his station and wait for the coming of morn. He had tried to stand politely in the corner, but the constable had insisted otherwise.

“I have the best armour of the world,” the elegant man declared as he lounged within his chair and sipped delicately at a glass of wine. Long silver hair swayed gently as he shook his head and sighed, “Would it were day!”

Across from him, Zackary, Lord of Orleans, smiled amiably and replied, “You have an excellent armour, but let my horse have his due.”

A slight inclination of his head indicated the constable’s agreement to his friend’s statement. “It is the best horse of Europe.”

The other man’s smile grew into a wide grin, but the expression faded as the dark-haired man threw his head back against his chair. “Will it never be morning?” he asked impatiently of the surrounding air.

Cloud shifted slightly and tried to give no other sign of his terrible discomfort. His lords, nay the entire French army, were so very confident in their upcoming victory. Their numbers, their leadership, their morale, all seemed to indicate that the destruction of the English was assured. These men, whose tent he had unwillingly invaded, were so unconcerned for the morrow that they talked and drank as if at a party and as if the following day would bring a simple parade of arms rather than bloody conflict. Unfortunately for the young blond’s peace of mind, he could find no argument to their logic, and his insides were quite terribly twisted with what could only be anxiety.

Away from the seated men, close to the opening flap of the tent, a third lord stirred and turned their way. This man was the highest of them all, bedecked in white garments and fine jewels, every inch of him shining with visual splendor. His father, the king, had strictly forbade his son to attend the battle, and yet here the man was, his lips curved into the same sly smile that had graced his face even when King Leon had sent his cousin Zell, Duke of Exeter, to express his mocking thanks for Prince Rufus’s present.

“My lord of Orleans and my lord high constable,” he said smoothly, “you talk of horse and armour?”

The two seasoned warriors exchanged brief glances before Lord Zackary turned towards him and Lord Sephiroth turned most pointedly away. “You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world,” the dark-haired lord commented with an unmistakable air of resigned politeness.

The Dauphin’s smile lengthened ever so slightly, but the pleasant feelings embodied in that gesture did not reach his cold, calculating eyes. With an elegant wave of his smooth white hand, he declared, “I will not change my horse with any that treads but on four pasterns. When I bestride him, I soar; I am a hawk. He is pure air and fire, and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in Patient stillness while his rider mounts him.”

Noticeably irritated by the Prince’s boasting, the constable turned his attention back to the younger man and replied, “Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent _horse_.”

The emphasis did not go unnoticed, and several heartbeats passed wherein the two lords stared menacingly at each other. The pure disdain that each held for the other was palpable. It gave a heaviness to the atmosphere that wiped the smile from the lord of Orleans’s face and tightened Cloud’s chest. In an effort to dispel the violence that thrummed in the air, he cleared his throat gently before turning to Lord Sephiroth beside him.

“My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?”

“Stars, Cloud,” the silver-haired lord replied without looking at him.

The Dauphin laughed shortly and turned his head, breaking the dangerous connection that had existed between him and the constable. However, Cloud did not even have time to breathe a sigh of relief before the man’s silky tones commented, “Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.”

“And yet,” Lord Sephiroth responded without pause, “my sky shall not want.”

The Dauphin did not reply, shrugging one shoulder and taking a sip of his own wine. Long, graceful strides brought him to the opening of the tent again, and he gazed out into the night.  “Will it never be day?” he eventually sighed. Turning back to the two lords who watched him with guarded expressions, he stated, “I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.”

The constable snorted, an inelegant noise that startled both of the seated men near him. Pointedly, he warned, “I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of my way.”

Prince Rufus’s eyes narrowed, sharp as blades, and again he stared down his father’s finest soldier who would on the morrow command the entire army. Rather than watch them, Cloud lowered his eyes to the ground. The disrespect that these high-ranking men held for each other, the desire to outdo each other through insults and acts of glory, for some reason, he truly doubted that such a sentiment was present among the courtiers of the English King. That man commanded so much respect and loyalty with his presence, his speech, and his actions, that Cloud could not believe any man who served Leon would bother to concern himself with personal glory. If Cloud were to serve such a man, he knew his thoughts would only be bent upon achieving glory for his king, and he was only a mere messenger, not a soldier such as these lords.

The blond Frenchman’s breath suddenly caught as he realized the disloyal and near-treasonous thoughts he had just had.

“'Tis midnight,” the Dauphin declared, breaking him from his reverie. “I'll go arm myself.” He swept from the tent in a majestic display of blinding white and sparkling jewels.

Once the Prince had left, Lord Zackary slumped into his chair with a relieved sigh. He flashed Cloud a reassuring grin before turning to Lord Sephiroth and commenting, “The Dauphin longs for morning. He longs to eat the English.”

“I think he will eat all he kills,” the constable replied viciously.

Unafraid of his friend’s anger, the lord of Orleans laughed brightly and continued, “He never did harm, that I heard of.”

“Nor will do none to-morrow,” Lord Sephiroth stated with assurance. Calmly, he rose from his chair and moved to refill his cup. The exit of the Dauphin combined with Lord Zackary’s cheer had succeeded in chasing away most of his ill feelings. “Would it were day!” he said again as he poured the wine. Then, putting down the flask, he turned and said as if in contemplation, “Alas, poor Leon of England! He longs not for the dawning as we do.”

The utterance of Leon’s name had the unexpected effect of awakening all of Cloud’s senses. All of a sudden, he felt slightly ill from all the arrogance and disregard that saturated the lords’ tent. Slowly but irrevocably, his gall began to rise.

Lord Zackary had laughed at his friend’s statement with his usual good humor. Raising his glass in the air as if to toast, he added, “If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.”

He did not know how or why he stood, but at once he was on his feet with the surprised gazes of his lords upon him. Lifting his head, he stared first at violet eyes, then at green. “That island of England breeds very valiant creatures,” he said to them.

He did not wait for any reaction or reply, but strode to the opening of the tent and exited into the night. As he walked through the camp and to his own tent and bed, he could not stop the smile that spread across his face. Nor did he regret, for even a moment, the words he had said or the emotions behind them.

 

Act IV, Scene III

He heard the great cry rise toward the heavens long before he spotted the army itself. The spirit and determination behind those voices was clear: Leon was rousing his men, giving them courage for the day that lay ahead of them. Having not heard the king’s words and therefore unable to feel their resolve, Cloud put his head down and rode on, his heart heavy.

When Leon saw him, the king jumped down from the cart upon which he had been standing and watched his approach with a solemn expression. The fire in those eyes was unmistakable. This was a man primed and ready for battle. This was a warrior who would rather die than turn back. This was a leader whose men surrounded him on all sides, their hearts full of a fire as fierce as their sovereign’s.

Cloud pulled his horse up several yards away from the assembled army and raised his voice so that his message could be heard across the empty space. “Once more I come to know of thee, King Leon, if for thy ransom thou wilt now compound before thy most assured overthrow.”

He kept his expression neutral, but with his eyes he pleaded with the man before him to put an end to this battle before it had begun. The numbers were too overwhelming. It didn’t matter what strategy his advisors would devise or how loyal or brave his men. Cloud knew that the moment he turned and rode back towards his country’s lines, if he did not bring word of the English king’s agreement of ransom, Leon’s death would be assured. For some reason that he himself did not understand, that thought caused the messenger’s soul to shudder in fear. His regard for the scarred man before him was rapidly transforming from simple respect to something he did not wish to contemplate.

Leon’s powerful eyes had him firmly within their grip as the king asked, “Who hath sent thee now?”

“The Constable of France,” he replied calmly, although his heart was aching with the knowledge of what the other man was about to say.

“I pray thee, bear my former answer back,” the proud monarch ordered.  “Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.” He took a step towards the mounted man and all but roared, “Good God! Why should they mock poor fellows thus?  Let me speak proudly: tell the constable we are but warriors for the working-day.  Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd with rainy marching in the painful field, but, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim!”

A cheer went up throughout the ranks as the soldiers voiced their approval and their agreement with their king. Leon let his gaze roam over them, and he seemed to glow with his pride for their spirit. When he turned back to Cloud, his expression had gentled and he almost smiled. “Herald,” he said, “save thou thy labour.  Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald.  They shall have none, I swear, but these my _joints_ ,” -- another cheer from the assembled men -- “which if they have as I will leave 'em them, shall yield them little. Tell the constable.”

Cloud’s heart was beating wildly, so much so that he could barely breathe. With an unsteady hand, he reached up and removed his hat, cradling it against his chest in extreme respect and near reverence. “I shall, King Leon,” he spoke quietly. “And so fare thee well. Thou never shalt hear herald any more.”

A sudden realization came upon the king then, and something in his fierce and determined expression changed. His gray eyes, so strong and so passionate, filled with an odd kind of sadness as he gazed back at his enemy’s messenger. Yet Cloud did not take the time to wonder what the other man’s expression meant. He was too consumed with sadness of his own. Turning his horse around, he spurred the beast forward and galloped away as quickly as he dared. His soul was troubled; his heart was torn. Never could he wish for a French loss, but neither could he bring himself to wish for her victory. Instead, he steeled himself against the tears that threatened within his eyes and prayed to Almighty God that somehow, in some way, Leon, King of England and ruler of his pitiful heart, would be spared the death that mercilessly descended upon him now.

 

Act IV, Scene VII

Everywhere there was naught but death. The cries of the wounded assaulted his ears as he rode, and he knew that for years to come in his dreams he would hear that terrible roar as wave upon wave of arrows descended to earth from the heavens. The ground beneath his horse’s hooves was a veritable marsh of mud and rain and blood. So much blood, and nearly all of it from the veins of his countrymen.

The Lord High Constable was dead. _Dead_ , and so many other noblemen as well. His mind simply could not fathom the horror and disgrace that this battle had become. Never would he have believed that he would be sent on such a mission as this. Never would he have believed that his main fear at this moment would be to find that the intended recipient of that message was no longer among the living.

As he approached the line of the English army, skirting around still-ongoing clashes of swords and deftly maneuvering his mount around the wooden pikes that the soldiers had struck into the ground, a great roar rose up from farther back in the lines. Cloud paused in his approach, his traitorous heart leaping as it recognized the voice.

_“I was not angry since I came to France until this instant!”_

Angling the horse toward the sound, Cloud rode forward in haste, but as the man he sought came into sight, the reason why Leon had become so enraged also became apparent. Strewn all about the ground were the army’s supplies, their carts overturned, their provisions destroyed. And lying amidst this destruction were dozens of small, thin corpses: the boys who had been brought to stay back to the rear and see to the carts while the men rode forward to battle. Someone in the French army, some heartless, honor-less detachment, had ridden around to the rear of the English army and slaughtered all of its defenseless children.

Horrified and grief-stricken, Cloud pulled up his horse and quickly dismounted. He barely had time to remove his hands from the saddle, however, before other hands were upon him and he was thrown against a nearby tree. The hands moved to his throat as Leon roared at him, his mud-spattered face mere inches from his own.

“What means this, herald?” he screamed, murder shining from his eyes.  “Comest thou again for ransom?”

“No, great king!” Cloud gasped, his hands coming up to grip the fingers that pressed painfully against his throat.  “I come to thee for charitable licence, that we may wander o'er this bloody field to look our dead and then to bury them; to sort our nobles from our common men.  For many of our princes--woe the while!--lie drown'd and soak'd in mercenary blood.” As he spoke, the king’s anger gradually faded, and the pressure against the Frenchman’s skin eased. The hands, however, remained where they were even as the gray eyes lost their mad edge and returned to the calm strength that Cloud knew so well. “O, give us leave, great king,” he finished softly, “to view the field in safety and dispose of their dead bodies.”

Leon gazed at him for a long moment, his eyes traveling slowly over Cloud’s pale skin. The messenger bore the inspection as bravely as he could, feeling almost ashamed of his clean countenance, untouched by neither dirt nor blood. When the king finally spoke, his voice was heavy with exhaustion and great, great sadness.  “I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the day be ours or no.”

Cloud inhaled slowly. This man, covered in blood and filth as he was, was immeasurably beautiful. There had never been and would never be again a man as great as he.

Dropping his arms to his sides, he replied simply, “The day is yours.”

Slowly, Leon’s eyes closed. His head bowed until the forehead came to rest, to Cloud’s surprise, upon the messenger’s shoulder. The hands that held his throat fell away to lightly grip his collar instead.

“Praised be God, and not our strength, for it.”

The tired, relieved whisper blew a breath of warm air across the Frenchman’s chest, and he fought back a shudder as his heart picked up speed. His body ached to lift his arms and embrace the man who leaned against him, but he dared not. The lords of the English court watched them from nearby, some with small corpses cradled in their arms, and he knew that such a gesture from him would not be received well. He was beginning to realize and accept that, from the few times they had interacted, he had fallen for this man. But, alas, this man was more than a man. He was first and foremost a king.

After many precious moments of silent stillness, Leon stirred. He lifted his head and dropped one of his hands, leaving the other to rest where his forehead had recently lay. “What is this castle call'd that stands hard by?” he asked, indicating with his head the structure that stood upon a nearby hill.

“They call it Agincourt,” Cloud replied.

Leon smiled, a gesture that filled the other man with an overwhelming awe and warmth.  Proudly, the king declared, “Then call we this the field of Agincourt, fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.”

Still smiling, he dropped his hand and walked away. Cloud watched him go, feeling suddenly cold inside. He waited for several breaths to see if the king would turn his way once more, and when it became apparent that he would not, he returned to his horse, mounted and rode away. Once he was a fair distance, he paused to glance back at the English army. Leon was speaking with several men, captains by the look of them. Again, he waited for some sign of regard, and this time he was rewarded. Leon’s eyes turned to him and gave him a brief glance that set the messenger’s soul aflame.

“Great king,” Cloud whispered to himself as he held that powerful gaze for the merest of moments, “this day God fought for thee.” And with those words spoken, he broke their connection and spurred his horse on.

 

Act IV, Scene IX

Evening had fallen, but it was not yet midnight. Cloud smirked ruefully to himself as he realized this was now the fourth time he had ridden to the English camp this day. The first was before the battle; the second was to beg for an end to the fighting; and the third was to deliver the number of French dead -- over ten thousand, merciful God! -- and receive the number of English dead -- less than a hundred. This fourth time, however, was a ride unplanned. He came with no message but that of his own heart.

The sentries knew him well by now, and they let him pass without question. Slowly, respectfully, he rode through the camp until he reached the great tents that undoubtedly housed the noble lords. The blond lord with the scar across his face, Zell of Exeter if his memory served him, stood quietly in the firelight outside his tent and offered the Frenchman a nod of recognition. Then, once Cloud had dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to a nearby common soldier, he turned and led the Frenchman to the royal tent without a word. Upon reaching it, he stuck his head inside, presumably to announce the other man, and then withdrew, offering only a small smirk as if to say he understood the messenger’s errand.

His heart beating painfully within his chest, Cloud removed his hat, ducked his head, and passed through the opening to the tent, allowing the flap to fall shut behind him. Leon sat upon his cot, as if recently roused from his rest. While Cloud felt a twinge of remorse for disturbing the tired man, he did not allow it to lessen his determination. He had come here this night with a certain purpose in mind, and thus he stepped forward several paces and spoke.

“You know me by my habit.”

“Well then I know thee,” Leon replied, guarded. “What shall I know of thee?”

“My mind.”

“Unfold it.”

Cloud took a slow breath and offered up a silent prayer. He prayed that he had not misunderstood the expression in the other man’s eyes, that he would not be dishonored or killed for what he was about to do. He prayed, and then he let his hat fall to the floor.

Leon’s eyes followed it before raising to the other man’s face. Cloud stared back unflinchingly and lifted a hand to untie his cape. That descended to the floor as well, followed by his gloves. However, when his hands reached for the hem of his tunic, the king suddenly stood, halting his movements in a wave of fear.

Cloud stood frozen as Leon approached him, gazing helplessly into those gray eyes which had ignited to resemble twin storms. For one terrible, breathless moment, the king stood directly before him, and Cloud could do naught. His insides were filled with ice, and he trembled with the knowledge that his death was imminent. But then, Leon moved and, rather than strike Cloud’s head from his body or run him through, he smiled slyly and took the tunic’s hem within his own hands.

Relief spread first through Cloud’s body, then a heated lust as Leon stripped the blond man’s chest of all its clothes. He bit back a moan as those warm hands, heavily callused from battle, roamed across his bare skin, over his chest and shoulders and then behind to his back. He gave no resistance as the king pulled him forward to meet his own body, and when, moments later, lips descended upon his, he offered himself up utterly.

The kiss with which Leon claimed him was not as rough or needy as Cloud had assumed it would be. Instead, it was tender and soft, and Cloud found himself melting into the other man’s embrace. He lifted his arms and threaded his fingers into Leon’s hair. The king responded with a low, purring growl that vibrated the Frenchman’s very core and sent shocks of pleasure coursing through him. Their kiss, deep and wet, continued until both were panting for breath. Only when he knew he could take no more did Cloud pull away and rest his forehead against Leon’s shoulder.

Warm breaths stirred his hair and caressed his scalp as Leon buried his face within blond locks. Between pants, the king somehow managed to find enough breath to form words. “By mine honour,” he whispered avidly, “I love thee, Cloud.”

Immediately, Cloud’s frame stiffened in shock. He pulled back from the other man with a jolt and stared in disbelief into that handsome face. He had come to the monarch’s tent this evening assuming that the man’s feelings ended at simple lust. Never had he considered that his more tender emotions might be returned by this man, so great, so powerful, and so very high above his station. It was a revelation as frightening as it was joyous, and Cloud suddenly found himself doubting his own courage and resolve.

Leon’s face was a mixture of hope and worry as he held Cloud’s gaze. It was clear that he had not stopped to question the Frenchman’s motives for coming here this night, but Cloud’s reaction to his admission had given him pause. Gently, he removed his hands from the other man’s body and stepped back. “What sayest thou to my love?” he asked in guarded, even tones.  “Speak, and fairly, I pray thee.”

Cloud swallowed, unable to answer straight away. He had planned for this night to be a single event, a solitary sin that he would take to his grave. If, however, he were to become Leon’s lover, his entire life would be overturned. He would have to reconsider his loyalties and reassess his future. His mind and his blood both quailed at the thought.

Unable to do anything but whisper under the weight of his anxiety, he asked of the man before him, “Is it possible that I should love the enemy of France?”

To Cloud’s surprise, Leon smiled, “No, Cloud,” he responded kindly. “In loving me, you should love the friend of France. For I love France so well that I will not part with a village of it. I will have it all mine.”

This statement forced a short laugh from Cloud’s throat, and Leon took the sound to mean that he could once more approach. Stepping forward, he cupped the side of the blond man’s face in one hand as he said, “And, Cloud, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you …” He slid his other arm around Cloud’s waist and brought their bodies together once more. “… are mine.”

Cloud gazed into those beautiful gray eyes and knew in an instant that his loyalties had changed long ago. Perhaps even as early as their first meeting, his heart had beat for this man alone. Station, bloodline, country, none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was that he was here, in Leon’s arms, longing for Leon’s touch, aching to be one with him and that Leon, by some blessing of God, ached for the same. Resolve restored, he gave his answer, not with words but with a kiss so passionate that it drew another delicious growl from the throat of the king. Nay, _his_ king. His Leon.

He knew not when Leon managed to remove his own upper clothing, but he soon found himself thrown upon the narrow cot, Leon’s bare torso pressing against his own as their tongues tangled within their mouths. Their kiss was exhilarating, but Cloud was no longer satisfied with it and began to explore the king’s chest with his hands. He found and palmed the man’s nipples, pulling a low groan from him, before teasing them gently with his fingertips. Leon responded by breaking the kiss and nibbling Cloud’s jawbone, lowering his head slowly so as to devote equal attention to the entire length of the blond’s neck. The pleasure he received from these simple kisses shook Cloud deeply, and he arched his back and whined to keep from moaning too loudly.

Chuckling, Leon lifted himself from the bed and proceeded to undertake the necessary task of removing Cloud’s boots. Unwilling to be without his love’s touch for even a moment, Cloud sat up and, bending his knees to bring him closer, curled his body around Leon’s so that he could kiss and suck at the man’s neck while the other attempted to undo his laces. His hands roamed freely over Leon’s chest, touching, stroking, and massaging as they travelled. The distracted king growled at him more than once, but Cloud refused to stop and when the second boot finally hit the floor after many curses and tugs, the blond found himself smashed against the cot once more, helpless against the mouth that proceeded to devour him.

When he was writhing on the sheets and painfully clenching his teeth together to keep from screaming, Leon finally let him go long enough to undo his own boots. His trousers followed, and when Cloud recovered enough to glance up, panting, he found that he was gazing upon the King of England in all his glory. The mere sight of the man made him weak, so much so that when Leon lifted him from the cot to similarly strip him naked, Cloud almost fell. He recovered in time, however, and allowed Leon to remove the last bits of his modesty from his pale, unscarred body.

The king had knelt upon the floor to remove the blond’s clothing, and from there, he looked up at the one he would soon call lover in appreciation and awe. “You,” he murmured huskily, “are like an angel.”

Cloud laughed lightly, but he could feel his cheeks staining with a blush. “O bon Dieu!” he teased, acting the part of a lady unimpressed by her beau’s suit. “Les langues des hommes sont pleines de tromperies.”

Leon laughed with him and rose to take him once again in his arms. Something rough brushed against Cloud’s back, but his curiosity as to its nature dissolved when the manifestation of his lust brushed lightly against the king’s thigh. He gasped, open-mouthed, at the hot shiver of pleasure that shot through him at the sensation. Leon chuckled at his reaction, but before Cloud could frown at him in response, the man’s hand closed around him and a surge of pleasure so powerful overtook him that he had to throw his head back and slam his teeth together. Even so, he whined viciously and twisted in Leon’s hold, desperately wanting something he could not name.

The rough thing that had touched his back was now pressing against his lips, and Cloud opened his eyes to find one of his gloves being presented to him. He met Leon’s eyes over the leather and immediately understood. His king desired him and would have him, but there could be no noise. Perhaps some other day, when they were alone, they could enjoy each other without fear, but this night, no one could know. Obediently, Cloud took the proffered glove between his teeth and nodded his assent. Leon smiled at him and kissed him gently on the eyelids.

Using gestures and gentle pushes, Leon guided Cloud to kneel on the cot facing the tent wall. For a moment, the Frenchman was at a loss as to where to put his hands, but when the king came up behind him and pressed himself against his back, he reached behind himself to find a firm grip on the other’s body. One of Leon’s hands held Cloud in place while the other began to once again stroke and encourage his lust. Cloud groaned softly into the leather in his mouth as he began to shake with pleasure. Leon’s lips descended upon his throat again, only adding to the sweet torture.

With their bodies pressed tightly together, Cloud could feel Leon’s lust against his backside, the hard flesh fitting neatly between his cheeks. Something low within the pit of his stomach ached and throbbed every time he felt it slide against his skin. He wanted that delicious mass elsewhere. Rising up on his knees and arching his back slightly, he began to tease Leon with his body, brushing against the man with obvious intent. The harsh pants and gasping moans of his name that he felt against his shoulder only spurred him on. When, on one of his strokes, he felt the tip line up properly with his own body, he pushed down slightly. The pain made him stop almost immediately, but it was enough to rip a low groan from Leon’s throat, his fingers gripping Cloud’s hips tightly.

The king took control thereafter, guiding himself in slowly and kissing away any tears that escaped from Cloud’s tightly-closed eyes. In time, the pain that the young blond felt gave way to a delicate pleasure that only grew until it wiped clean the memory of the unpleasant entry. Leon was all around him, behind and before, gasping softly in his ear and holding him firmly in his arms. Cloud felt encased by love, drowned in pleasure. The top of every stroke was like a burst of bone-melting bliss, and he ached to let his moans escape, those that he could not hold back dying quick deaths within the damp leather. He believed to his soul that he could not get any closer to heaven, and then le petite mort was upon him and he learned what it was to have heaven descend.

Afterwards, he lay upon the king’s cot, held within Leon’s arms, and watched the scarred man sleep. The lion had come to France and shaken her very foundations with his violent storms, but Cloud knew that, in time, she would come to see in this man what he did. Leon was a king among kings. The respect he commanded, the power he showed, the mercy he offered when possible, the ruthlessness he exhibited when needed, all combined to make him a truly great ruler of men. Yet even a ruler as great as Leon was still but a man, and Cloud smiled to himself to know that he was the one who currently and, with God’s grace, eternally held the other half of this man’s heart.

Carefully, the messenger leaned over the king’s sleeping form and placed a soft kiss upon his lips. “Votre est France,” he whispered to his love, “et vous etes mienne.”


End file.
